Saturday, April 09, 2005

Those Whacky Prostitutes (And Other Stories)

Three Nights Ago: I'm out drinking with the guys. Let's call them Dale and David, 'cos that's what their names are. Anyway, I'm out drinking with them, or should I say, I'm in drinking with them, at the pub on the first floor of the Carlton Hotel, which is where I'm staying at the moment. George is downstairs, Pete is behind the bar, and there are a couple of prostitutes lounging around on the lounge chatting to Pete. When I go to ask Pete how much for a bag of chips, the black haired prostitue pipes up and says, "Ten bucks, love."
It's good to drink, but at twelve-thirty I decide to go to bed. I don't have to get wasted to enjoy a good nights sleep.
I crawl into bed, the top bunk, and briefly squint across at Adam's bunk on the other side of the room - what the hell does this guy do all night? he doesn't sleep, that's for sure - before turning the lights off. I don't need to get wasted to sleep properly.
Or maybe I do. At 3.00, I'm woken by a key in the door. There are voices outside, so I assume that it's Dale and David arriving back. The door opens and the lights go on. It is Dale, but it's not David. Actually, it's the prostitute who spoke to me before.
Jerkily, probably still half-asleep, I pull on a few clothes on and jump to the floor.
"I think I need to go to the toilet for a second," says the prostitute.
When she's gone, this is what Dale says to me - and this is verbatim:

Dale: I'm going to fuck this bitch tonight. (Giggles) I haven't had a root for three months. I'm going to bang her good. (Giggles again, doesn't stop.)

Whatever. I don't know what the hell I'm going to do for the rest of the night, but sleeping, it seems, is not on the itinerary.
Or is it? Dale starts wondering what happened to the prostitute, so he goes to the toilet. She's not there. And she's taken fifty dollars of his! He dashes down the stairs to look in the bar. I lean over the banister for a while. In a few minutes, David comes up stairs, and Dale goes outside to look for her.
David is drunk. Very drunk. He's a nice guy, but he tends to ramble and has an aggressive manner. So when he's drunk, he rambles very much - and is even aggressiver. For the next half-hour or so, I sit on my bed leaning forward and listening to David ramble on and on about bitches and Asians.
Eventually I lie back on the bed.

Me: I'm just going to, you know, turn this light off, and, you know, we can go to sleep.

David: (Rambles some more).

About half-an-hour later, Dale comes in, lies down on the bed until the alarm goes off. It's 4.00am. He gets up, turns the light on, pulls his clothes on, turns the light off, and goes to work.

Two nights ago: Still don't know where Adam is. He hasn't come into the room at all - just leaves his stuff on the top of the bed.
I'm sleeping. Then at 3.00am the door opens and in comes Adam, followed by a security guy. Adam pulls all his bags together, looks around under the bed for his mobile phone charger and some other things. Eventually the security guard says, "Come on man. Let's go". And they do.
Whatever. I think I'll just lie back on the bed and go to sleep.*

Or not.

Dale is snoring. Snoring heavily. He always does. Actually, he didn't even notice Adam and the security guard come in - he's too busy snoring, and occasionally mumbling while he snores. Normally, it doesn't worry me - but now it does. I can't sleep. Keep on drifting off, then I'm snatched back to consciousness by Dale's snores.

Eventually, Dale wakes up, sits up, turns on the light, pulls on his clothes, turns off the light, and goes to work. Bliss.

Or not.

Some idiot is walking up and down Bourke Street screaming, "Heeeeeeeyyyyyyyyyyyyy!!!! Heeeeeeeyyyyyyyyyyyyy!!!! Heeeeeeeyyyyyyyyyyyyy!!!!"

No more sleep. Again. I think I'll swear. Excuse me for a second.


*we'll call it room for the purposes of this conversation, though 'box' or 'cupboard' might be a more appropriate description
* I later found out Adam was dealing heroin.


Anonymous said...

I'm ALMOST starting to believe that you were better off chain-ganging, no? But this is definitely better for us, because at least you blog more often.


TimT said...

True! We all have to suffer for our art!

generic viagra said...

I think you had a hard night or maybe a good night it depends on you, because I figure out that prostitute screamed a lot at the bedroom.

Email: timhtrain - at -

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